


Drip

by ieroangel



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Frerard, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ieroangel/pseuds/ieroangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for tumblr user frankanthonyway</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drip

The thirty-six year old man opened the front door, only to feel a jab sting his chest when the man on the other side was smiling wider than ever.  
‘As if nothing had happened,’ thought Gerard, and then cleared his throat awkwardly.  
“So, you wanted help with writing a guitar piece?”  
All right, to be fair, Frank was the best guitarist he knew, he wrote a ton of music for My Chemical-no, he could not think of that, think comics, writing, anything but…Frank. God, Frank. God, the kisses, and the head-over-heels crush he had had over the cute boy on the other side of the room with the guitar, his fucking hugs, and his fucking smile. Oh, well, to hell with it all. The last time they had even TALKED was barely a TALK at all, more of a cutesy tweet about how Gerard should write something. Ha! Gerard should write something! That was rich. Writing had gotten Gerard into too many messes, rejection, hatred, which led up to My Chem, which got him into the drugs, the alcohol, and which led to here, ultimate hatred. He should have asked Ray. Ray was nice, and great at guitar, and super cool, and oh, fuck, he just wanted Frank, right here, right now, on the step. NO. Frank was always a NO in his mind, Lindsey was meant to be the only YES, she had said YES. NO, it was not a coincidence that she and Bandit were visiting family in another state that week, NO. He should have asked Ray. But Frank was already here, on the front porch, smiling, guitar in its case, slung over his shoulder, and a sideways smile that was slowly disappearing.  
“So, you wanted help with writing a guitar piece?” Frank repeated.  
“Oh!” Gerard said, faking a wide smile that was not his. “Yes! I’m writing this song for…”  
He wasn’t actually sure who it was for, he meant, Frank WAS on his mind when he started writing it, but ha, this wasn’t about Frank. Just like The Light Behind Your Eyes was about BANDIT, yes, BANDIT…but he remembered all the times he had absentmindedly sung Frank to sleep during the tours, and after…NO. Frank was a NO. He mustn’t forget that…  
“Yeah,” Gerard finished. “So, you wanna come in?”  
He had only just noticed that it was raining like mad out, and Frank was dripping with water.  
“Yeah, definitely,” Frank replied, and stepped into the Californian house.  
It was different than what Frank was definitely used to, Gerard could see, which was Jersey and smoke and apartments and cold and booze and sex. That was Gerard’s old homey scent too, but he guessed a fresh clean start was best for a freshly clean man.  
“Got a guitar?” Frank said, slightly smirking at Gerard’s nice-neat-clean house, and sunk into a chair, slinging his case off his shoulder as Gerard went to grab his own guitar.  
When he came back, Frank was lighting up a Marlboro and blowing smoke at the ceiling fan, a daring smile on his lips. Frank definitely knew that Gerard was trying to get clean, and his fingers were already doing the tappy-jumpy sort of dance whenever he smelled cigarette smoke, or booze, or even the drugs he used to do back when…no… Gerard was definitely twitching, because Frank had his gorgeous eyes turned on him with a half-concerned half-amused look on his face. He watched Frank exhale the sweet smoke perfectly, filled with want for both, no, it was the addict in him talking, and he merely wanted the cigarette. Breaking down, he asked for one. It WAS just one, right? Frank pulled the pack from his jacket pocket and Gerard took a cigarette, letting Frank light it with his ridiculous (supercool, Gerard argued) lighter. Gerard leaned back up and felt a calming feeling settle over his body. He shouldn’t have been smoking in the house, but, well…  
“So, this song,” said Gerard, his voice feeling roughened.  
“You gonna warm up?” said Frank, his eyes letting off flickers of amusement.  
Gerard felt mad at this for no reason, maybe it was the drugs talking, maybe it was the I’m-doing-the-best-after-the-band-so-ha instinct coming out, but he only said: “Yeah,” and then looked Frank right in his stupidly beautiful eyes and started singing.  
“In the middle of a gun fight,  
In the center of a restaurant,  
They say, "Come with your arms raised high!"”  
Frank’s colour drained from his face.  
“Well, they're never gonna get me,  
Like a bullet through a flock of doves,  
To wage this war against your faith in me.”  
Gerard felt a lump in his throat rise.  
“Your life...will never be the same.  
On your mother's eyes, say a prayer...say a prayer!”  
Yes, this had indeed been a terrible idea. He should’ve invited Ray, he should HAVE INVITED RAY, GOD, GERARD. But he couldn’t stop then, not like this, no matter how much it was torturing the both of them.  
“Now, but I can't, and I don't know,  
How we're just two men as God had made us.”  
Frank’s eyes looked like they were burning with tears like his own, but Gerard wasn’t sure, so he kept singing anyway.  
“Well, I can't, well, I can!  
Too much, too late, or just not enough of this  
Pain in my heart for your dying wish-“  
He paused.  
“I'll-I’ll-“  
Frank was holding his breath, it seemed. Gerard whispered the final line in complete agony, his voice catching desperately.  
“I’ll kiss your lips again.”  
There was a silence as Gerard went to sit in the chair nearest Frank, who was subtly letting out a series of breathy sobs that Gerard didn’t comment on.  
“Warmed up,” he said bitterly.  
“Right then,” said Frank, “So did you want something like-“  
He played something fast and shreddy and great that Gerard could without a doubt never pull off.  
“-or-“  
He then strummed something that was reminiscent of Early Sunsets, which made Gerard think back to that cute little boy in the band named after a book who played guitar and smiled at him from across the stage…but no, those days were gone. Gerard was gone. Frank was gone. It could not happen, it would not.  
“The second one,” Gerard said in a voice that felt shaky, and Frank asked for the lyrics.  
“The one from the…um…album…” said Gerard.  
Shit. He had forgotten showing the lyrics to Frank the day of the breakup.  
“The one I showed you, those lyrics.”  
He didn’t feel like repeating them; he was this close to crying, anyway, there was no chance of him repeating that day.  
“All right,” said Frank, discreetly rubbing at one of his eyes.  
Frank started picking out a melody and singing under his breath. He looked so beautiful, right then and there, that Gerard was whisked back to the days of the Revenge era, a time when it could have been real….  
“Why did you kiss me?” Frank had said, plainly.  
“I was drunk…” Gerard had said.  
That was one of their excuses.  
“To piss people off.”  
“To freak people out.”  
“To spread awareness.”  
“It’s the adrenaline of the moment.”  
That was bullshit, Gerard knew. There were times when he knew that he was in love with Frank and Frank knew that he was in love with him…they had kissed and groped, and hell, half-fucked, but they had never come to terms with it until March the twenty-second…...  
Was it still the adrenaline of the moment if he leaned down and kissed Frank right now?  
He felt himself automatically moving closer, and knowing Frank, he could look at Gerard and know he was about to go in for the kiss.  
“Okay,” said Frank, startling Gerard’s blurry mind. “Why don’t you try that first bit, there?”  
Shit!  
Gerard picked up his own guitar, and stared blankly at Frank. Frank looked back, raising his eyebrows in a ‘go on’ sort of way.  
He started picking out what he could remember from the song, but it kept sounding like shit and twanging and, god, he should’ve paid attention to Frank’s hands more closely. And before he knew it they were around his own, pushing them gently into the right places, and making Gerard feel more like a twenty-four year old guy in a punk band than a fucked up thirty-six year old guy in California who was more married to the idea of marriage than to his wife. No, he decided thirty wasn’t old. “Yeah, for trees,” played the familiar voice in the back of his head. NO.  
“Okay, try it now, then,” Frank said, his arms still around Gerard.  
He hummed a melody into his ear and Gerard played it back tentatively. It went on like that for about ten minutes or so until Frank told him to play the whole thing.  
“Right then,” he said, and started playing back what he could recall.  
It was starting to sound pretty good too, until his pick hit the wrong string, and Gerard moaned “oh, damn.”  
“’s all right,” said Frank and leaned over to kiss Gerard’s neck softly.  
Gerard took in a sharp breath and played it back again, this time way worse than before, since all he could think about was Frank, Frank behind him, Frank kissing his neck, Frank on top of him, Frank, Frank, oh god. Gerard dropped the pick.  
“Oh, damn,” he said again, and Frank leaned down to both grab it and kiss Gerard gently on the mouth.  
Gerard breathed in, this time harder, and wrapped his mouth around Frank’s, feeling his way around the scars and crevices and places that he knew existed before ANYONE, not some other fucking girl, not anyone, no, Frank was only Gerard’s, Frank was his YES, but fuck, he missed that lip ring. Frank was the first to pull away. He looked into Gerard’s eyes questioningly, and Gerard looked down.  
“I love you,” said Frank, and then slid Gerard’s guitar off his lap and climbed onto it himself.  
Gerard felt Frank’s hands run through his hair, then down his shirt, then undoing his belt easily.  
“This is where you say you love me back, idiot,” said Frank, grinning into Gerard’s mouth and sliding a hand into Gerard’s jeans.  
“Frank-“said Gerard. “I do love you, god I fucking love you, god, Frank, fuck.”  
“Oh my god, you’re wearing fucking Dr. Pepper chapstick,” said Frank, running his tongue over Gerard’s lips, making him shudder.  
“Fuck you,” Gerard replied, and Frank pushed him onto the floor.  
“Well, that is the point.”  
It was then ten minutes later, and Gerard’s eyes were shut tight, one leg around Frank’s, one splayed out, making an awkward sort of tangle, and waiting for the moment to break, hoping it never would. It was still raining, hard. The shades on the window nearest them were drawn tightly. It was cold, and the window was leaking rain.  
Drip.  
Drip.  
Drip.  
Like the sound of coffee dripping into a coffee maker.  
Drip.  
Drip.  
Drip.  
Which reminded him of the bird.  
Drip.  
Drip.  
Drip.  
Which made him remember the break up.  
Drip.  
Drip.  
Drip.  
Which made him remember…  
“I love you.”  
He had said it first, that terrible fucking day when he had come clean, this time from being in love with Frank, not being addicted, which was really intertwined, if you thought about it. Frank blinked his eyes open, and responded the same way.  
“I can’t.” said Frank, “but I do.”  
Those were the worst string of words anyone could hear, and Gerard knew that. He refused to let the moment shatter, and disappear, so he responded with the biggest lie anyone could ever tell in the history of ever.  
“I’m okay.”  
“I’m NOT okay,” Frank said.  
“You can't just drop the single like that! What are you, a rapper?” Gerard said, without thinking about it.  
Frank let out an adorable little giggle, and, suddenly, then they were back to the NOrmal stage of I-Am-Frank-You-Are-Gerard-And-We-Are-Best-Friends-That’s-All-Don’t-Write-Genderbent-Fan-Fiction-About-Us-Please-And-Thank-You, and Gerard was okay with that, for the time being, he supposed.  
“Thank you,” said Gerard, “for the guitar lesson.”  
“You releasing the song?” Frank said, attempting to pull his jeans back on in a discreet manner.  
Gerard remained silent as Frank laced up his shoes and tugged on his jacket and slung the guitar over his shoulder and headed towards the door with an umbrella.  
“Maybe,” said Gerard.  
Frank reached for the doorknob.  
‘In three years or so, when I have someone to release it with,” he added.  
“Maybe,” Frank replied, letting the door swing open as he opened his umbrella. “In three years or so.”  
The door slammed shut.  
Drip.  
Drip.  
Drip.


End file.
